Nov 12, 2015

Spot the White Man in Google's Veteran's Day 2015 Doodle

Can you spot the white man? He's there alright, see him, buried way in the back.

Google's recent Veteran's Day doodle aptly demonstrates the establishment's ongoing "Great Erasure" of White people -- particularly able-bodied, heterosexual, White men.

This is an image of not only the military that they want to have, but the world at large.

Nevermind that more than 90% of the US Military's casualties have been White men, that they have carried the lion's share of the load and suffered the overwhelming majority of the sweating and bleeding to give the citizens of this country the freedom's they enjoy -- why should they get any credit -- that's racist (and sexist, and anti-semitic, and homophobic, and ableist, and Islamaphobic, and xenophobic, . . .).

Credit: Stuff Black People Don't Like

Political Theology

via The National Policy Institute

Richard Spencer's talk from the NPI's recent Become Who We Are conference.

Retrotopia: A Visit to the Capitol

via The Archdruid Report

Author's Note: This is the ninth installment of an exploration of some of the possible futures discussed on this blog, using the toolkit of narrative fiction. Our narrator finally has his interview with the President of the Lakeland Republic, asks some hard questions, and prepares for a trip into unexpected territory.
Finch flagged down a cab as soon as we got out onto the sidewalk, and within a minute or two we were rolling through downtown at however many miles an hour a horse makes at a steady trot. Before too many more minutes had gone by, we were out from among the big downtown buildings, and the unfinished dome of the Capitol appeared on the skyline. Finch was in high spirits, talking about the compromise Meeker had brokered with the Restos, but I was too keyed up to pay much attention. A day and a half in the Lakeland Republic had answered a few of my questions and raised a good many more that I hadn’t expected to ask at all, and the meeting ahead would probably determine whether I’d be able to get the answers that mattered.
The cab finally rolled to a halt, and the cabbie climbed down from his perch up front and opened the door for us. I’d been so deep in my own thoughts for the last few blocks that I hadn’t noticed where we’d ended up, and I was startled to see the main entrance to the Capitol in front of me. I turned to Finch. “Here, rather than the President’s mansion?”
The intern gave me a blank look. “You mean like the old White House? We don’t have one of those. President Meeker has a house in town, just like any other politician.” I must have looked startled, because he went on earnestly:  “We dumped the whole imperial-executive thing after Partition. I’m surprised so many of the other republics kept it, after everything that happened.”
I nodded noncommittally as we walked up to the main entrance, climbed the stair, and went in. There were a couple of uniformed guards inside the outer doors, the first I’d seen anywhere in the Lakeland Republic, but they simply nodded a greeting to the two of us as we walked by.
We pushed open the inner doors and went into the rotunda. There was a temporary ceiling about forty feet overhead, and someone had taken the trouble to paint on it a trompe l’oeil view of the way the dome would look from beneath. In the middle of the floor was a block of marble maybe three feet on a side; I could barely see it because a dozen or so people were standing around it.  One of them, a stout and freckled blonde woman in a pale blue gingham dress, was saying something in a loud clear voice as we came through the doors:
“ solemnly swear that, should I be elected to any official position, I will faithfully execute the laws of the Lakeland Republic regardless of my personal beliefs, and should I be unable to do so in good conscience, I will immediately resign my office, so help me my Lord and Savior Jesus.” Three sudden blue-white flashes told of photos being taken, a little patter of applause echoed off the temporary ceiling, and then some of the people present got to work signing papers on the marble cube.
Finch led me around the group to a door on the far side of the rotunda. “What was that about?” I asked him with a motion of my head toward the group around the cube.
“A candidate,” he explained as we went through the doors. “Probably running for some township or county office.  A lot of them like to do the ceremony here at the Capitol and get the pictures in their local papers. You can’t run for any elected position here unless you take that oath first—well, with or without the Jesus bit, or whatever else you prefer in place of it. There was a lot of trouble before the Second Civil War with people in government insisting that their personal beliefs trumped the duties of their office—”
“I’ve read about it.”
“So that went into our constitution. Break the oath and you do jail time for perjury.”
I took that in as we went down a corridor. On the far end was what looked like an ordinary front office with a young man perched behind a desk. “Hi, Gabe,” Finch said. 
“Hi, Mike.  This is Mr. Carr?”
“Yes. Mr. Carr, this is Gabriel Menendez, the President’s assistant secretary.”
We shook hands, and Menendez picked up a phone on his desk and asked, “Cheryl, is the boss free? Mr. Carr’s here.” A pause, then:  “Yes. I’ll send him right in.” He put down the phone and waved us to the door at the far end of the room. “He’ll see you now.”
We shed coats and hats at the coatrack on one side of the office, and went through the door. On the other side was another corridor, and beyond that was a circular room with doors opening off it in various directions. Off to the left an ornate spiral stair swept up and down to whatever was on the floors above and below.  To the right was another desk; the woman sitting at it nodded greetings to us and gestured to the central door. I followed Finch as he walked to the door, opened it, and said, “Mr. President? Mr. Carr.”
Isaiah Meeker, President of the Lakeland Republic, was standing at the far side of the room, looking out the window over the Toledo streetscape below.  He turned and came toward us as soon as Finch spoke. He looked older than the pictures I’d seen, the close-trimmed hair and iconic short beard almost white against the dark brown of his face. “Mr. Carr,” he said as we shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. I hope you haven’t been completely at loose ends this last day or so.” He gestured toward the side of the room. “Please have a seat.”
It wasn’t until I turned the direction he’d indicated that I realized there were more than the three of us in the room. A circle of chairs surrounded a low table there.  Melissa Berger and Fred Vanich, whom I’d met in the Toledo train station, were already  seated there, and so were two other people I didn’t know. “Stuart Macallan from the State Department,” Meeker said, making introductions. “Jaya Patel, from Commerce. Of course you’ve already met Melissa and Fred.”
Hands got shaken and I took a seat. Macallan was the assistant secretary of state for North American affairs, I knew, and Patel had an equivalent position on the trade end of things. “I apologize for the delay,” Meeker went on. “I imagine you know how it goes, though.”
“Of course.”
“And you seem to have put the time to good use—at least for our garment industry.”
That got a general chuckle, which I joined. “When in Rome,” I said. “I take it that’s not one of the things visitors usually do, though; Mr. Finch here looked right past me this morning.”
Finch reddened. “It really does vary,” Patel said. “Some of the diplomats and business executives we’ve worked with have taken to buying all their clothes here—we’ve even fielded inquiries about exporting garments for sale abroad. Still, most of our visitors seem to prefer their bioplastic.” Her fractional shrug showed, politely but eloquently, what she thought of that.
“To each their own,” said the President. “But you’ve had the chance to see a little of Toledo, and find out a few of the ways we do things here. I’d be interested to know your first reactions.”
I considered that, decided that a certain degree of frankness wasn’t out of place. “In some ways, impressed,” I said, “and in some ways disquieted. You certainly seem to have come through the embargo years in better shape than I expected—though I’m curious about how things will go now that the borders are open.”
“That’s been a matter of some concern here as well,” Meeker allowed. “That said, so far things seem to be going smoothly.”
Macallan paused just long enough to make sure his boss wasn’t going to say more, and then cleared his throat and spoke. “One of the things we hope might come out of your visit is a better relationship with the Atlantic Republic. I’m sure you know how fraught things were with Barfield and his people. If Ms. Montrose is willing to see things ratchet down to a more normal level, we’re ready to meet her halfway—potentially more than halfway.”
“That was quite an upset she pulled off in the election,” Meeker observed. “I hope you’ll pass on my personal congratulations.”
“I’ll gladly do that,” I said to the President, and then to Macallan:  “It’s certainly possible. I don’t happen to know her thoughts on that, but a lot of people on our side of the border are interested in seeing things change, and she’s got a stronger mandate than any president we’ve had since Partition. Still—” I shrugged. “We’ll have to see what happens after the inauguration.”
“Of course,” Macallan said.
“One thing we’d be particularly interested in seeing,” said Patel, “is a widening of the opportunities for trade. Obviously that’s going to be delicate—it’s a core policy of ours that the Republic has to be able to meet its essential needs from within its own borders, and I know that stance isn’t exactly popular in  global-trade circles. We’re not interested in global trade, but there are things your country produces that we’d like to be able to buy, and things we produce that you might like to buy in exchange.”
“Again,” I said, “we’ll have to see what happens—but I don’t know of any reason why that wouldn’t be a possibility.”
She nodded, and a brief silence passed. Vanich’s featureless voice broke it. “Mr. Carr,” he said, “you mentioned that you found some of the ways we do things here disquieting. I think we’d all be interested in hearing more about that, if you’re willing.”
Startled, I glanced across the table at him, but his face was as impenetrable as it had been the first time I’d seen him. I looked at the President, who seemed amused, and then nodded. “If you like,” I said. “At first it was mostly the—” I floundered for a term. “—deliberately retro, I suppose, quality of so much of what I’ve seen: the clothing, the technology, the architecture, all of it. I have to assume that that’s an intentional choice, connected to whatever’s inspired your Resto parties in politics.”
Meeker nodded. “Very much so.”
“But that’s not actually the thing I find most disquieting. What has me scratching my head is that your republic seems to have gone out of its way to ignore every single scrap of advice you must have gotten from the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, the other global financial institutions—in fact, from the entire economics profession—and despite that, you’ve apparently thrived.”
Meeker’s face broke into a broad smile. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent. I’ll offer just one correction: we haven’t succeeded as well as we have despite ignoring the economic advice of the World Bank and so forth. We’ve done so precisely because we’ve ignored their advice.”
I gave him a long wary look, but his smile didn’t waver.
“Mr. Carr,” Melanie Berger said then, “Since the end of the embargo we’ve been approached four times by the World Bank and the IMF. I’ve been involved in the discussions that followed. Each time, their economists have made long speeches about how the way we do things is hopelessly inefficient, and how we’ve got to follow their advice and become more efficient. Each time, I’ve asked them to answer a simple question: ‘more efficient for what output in terms of what input?’ Not one of them has ever been able, or willing, to give me a straight answer.”
“I had a lecture on that subject yesterday from a bank officer,” I told her.
Her eyebrows went up, and then she smiled. “Not surprising. It’s something most people here know about, if they know anything at all about money.”
I nodded, taking that in. “So what you’re suggesting,” I said, as much to Meeker as to her, “is that the rest of the world doesn’t have a clue about economics.”
“Not quite,” said the President. “It’s just that our history has forced us to look at things in a somewhat different light, and prioritize different things.”
It was a graceful answer, and I nodded. “The question that comes to mind at this point,” he went on, “is whether there’s anything else you’d like to see, now that you know a little more about our republic.”
“As it happens, yes,” I said. “There is.”
He motioned me to go on.
“When I drew up the list we sent to your people right after the election, I didn’t know about the tier system, and I’ve got some serious questions about what things are like at the bottom rung of that ladder. I’ve read a little bit about the system, but I’m frankly skeptical that anybody in this day and age would voluntarily choose to live in the conditions of 1830.”
“That’s actually a common misconception,” Jaya Patel said, with the same you-don’t-get-it smile I’d seen more than once since my arrival. “The only thing the tier system determines is what infrastructure and services gets paid for out of tax revenues.”
“I saw a fair number of horsedrawn wagons on the train ride here,” I pointed out. “That’s not a matter of infrastructure.”
“Actually, it is,” she said. “Without a road system built to stand up to auto traffic, cars and trucks aren’t as efficient as wagons—” Her smile suddenly broadened. “—in terms of the total cost of haulage. That doesn’t keep people in tier one counties from having whatever personal technologies they want to have, and are willing and able to pay for.”
“Got it,” I said. “I’d still like to see how it works out in practice.”
“That’s easy enough,” the President said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said, “though I know this may be further than you’re willing to go. I’d like to see something of your military.”
The room got very quiet. “I’d be interested,” Meeker said, “in knowing why.”
I nodded. “It seems to me that whatever you’ve achieved by this retro policy of yours comes at the cost of some frightful vulnerabilities. Ms. Berger told me a little about the war with the Confederacy and Brazil, and of course I knew a certain amount about that in advance. Obviously you won that round—but we both know that the Confederacy wasn’t in the best of shape in ‘49, and I really wonder about your ability to stand up to a modern high-tech military.”
“Like the Atlantic Republic’s?” Meeker asked, with a raised eyebrow.
I responded with a derisive snort. “With all due respect, I’m sure you know better than that. I’m thinking about what would happen if we ended up with a war zone or a failed state on our western borders.”
“Fair enough,” he said after a moment, “and I think we can satisfy you about that.”
“I’d like to suggest something,” Berger said to the President. “Defiance County is first tier.”
He glanced at her. “You’re thinking Hicksville?”
“We’ll have to find someone.”
“Tom Pappas comes to mind,” she said.
The President’s face took on a slightly glazed expression, and then he laughed. “Yes, I think Tom will do. Thank you, Melanie.” He turned to me. “Have you made any plans for tomorrow?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. The day after tomorror, there’s a—military exercise, I think you would call it—in a first tier county a couple of hours from here by train. If you’re willing, I can have my staff make the arrangements for you to go there tomorrow, have a look around, stay the night, see how our military does things the next day, and then come back. Is that workable?”
“I’d welcome that,” I told him, wondering what I’d just gotten myself into.

A White Cop Tells the Truth: An Excerpt from "Downtown White Police"

via The End of Zion

Downtown White Police: Demonizing the Alpha Cop, Glorifying Thugs, and Militarizing Law Enforcement is the new book written by retired Connecticut police officer James Lancia.

It’s a highly readable and entertaining book made up of anecdotes about Lancia’s time serving as a law enforcement officer in the Father Panik Housing Project – the most dangerous of its kind in the 80s – as well as many facts about race, integration, and the general decline of society.

Lancia was a very respected and highly decorated cop thought by many to the toughest in his precinct. His valor earned him the love of the good people he was sworn to protect, and the fear of the criminals who crossed his path, as well as the nickname “Supercop.”

This is the kind of book that could have a very positive impact on society if widely read, so I would encourage everybody to pick up a few copies, read it, and send it to as many people as you can, especially those who are in a position of power and influence, such as other police officers.

Lancia has recently been interviewed by The Pressure Project and Red Ice Creations.

Below is a sample chapter of his book (with links and pictures provided by me).

Chapter 46 – The Truth Hurts: Hollywood and Television

Movies, television shows, commercials, Disney, MTV, and others are just a part of the myriad of trash that spews out racial biases against whites, anti-Christian messages that are now being bludgeoned over everyone’s head, and the corrupting effect of commercialized pop culture propaganda. Not to mention the glorification and normalization of alcohol and drug use. This has all been done so progressively, it has become normal. It is a well known fact that generally, television and Hollywood are owned and run by Jewish elites. I have never seen any defamation of any religion other than Christianity and any other race other than the non-Jewish white race. I find this highly offensive myself, because I am a straight, strong Christian white male-the main target for these progressive assholes and their attacks. This defamation is directly linked to much of the violence against whites and has created a perpetually tense racial atmosphere, fomenting this violence and at times even validating it. If a Christian owned media network bashed Jews in any way, it would be called Anti-Semitic and would be shut down. Is there a term for being Anti-Christian that instills that kind of fear and public backlash? No. If you are in Hollywood and complain about this you will be blacklisted and publically ostracized as a bigot for exposing bigotry. Amazing. Why does anyone’s religion or race need to be singled out in this culture that falsely preaches equality and diversity? It is a Nazi-style control on all the entertainment garbage, which enters our homes and feeds the minds of the masses.


So called “celebrities” get away with the most asinine and condescending statements, all within and in homage to what is accepted as either political correctness or popular opinions beyond what is right. Some of the more recent and offensive racist, hateful language comes from ass-bag Jaime Foxx who, on Saturday Night Live while promoting his stupid racist movie, told the audience, “I get to kill all the white people, how black is that?” and the audience consisting mostly of pathetic whites, applauded him like the weak, fearful, morons they are. Jaime Foxx forgets that without the white majority he would not be who he is today, whatever that is. Oprah Winfrey, a billionaire made in part by the admiration of the white majority, says those same whites need to “die” so racism can end, because she suddenly decided that white people were the problem. If an old, fat, rich, black woman, who has everything, can have these sentiments and get away with it, what can we expect from the rest of the racist black population? She escapes accountability and never apologizes, and Paula Deen suffers publicly for making a joke decades ago. There is no fairness here, and the ones claiming they are treated unfairly are not only deluded, but get a free pass on betraying their own ideals of racial equality.

These are just two examples of the incredible stupidity and mentality of people who could make a positive difference in society but fail to do so, in order to placate the destructive gangster thug mentality which only manifests their fear of them. These types of statements and attitudes lead to, perpetuate, and provoke the lawlessness we are experiencing today. These people ignore the masses of young black teenagers looting, destroying, killing, raping, robbing, and engaging in racially motivated mob attacks across the country, all while shouting “It’s a black world,” “Fuck whitey,” “Kill that Cracker,” etc. All this happens while the public is told that it is impossible for blacks to be racists. What a crock of shit.


This is our future. These are not old white people perpetuating racial hostilities who need to die off so it can all end; this is just beginning for the next generation. How is a white America supposed to feel when these blatant, hateful racial insults go on with impunity? This is another side effect of Critical Race Theory being taught in public schools to children and teens. Any parent who allows this to be taught in their tax funded schools, is complicit.

Another blatant misrepresentation of facts, that Hollywood and our media generates, is the misconception that all serial killers are either white males or females. Wrong again, very wrong in fact. According to statistics dating back to 1900, black serial killers not only existed but have actually been the majority of serial killers since 1990 to 2010. The media and Hollywood persist in racially profiling white males to represent the lunatics that are serial killers when it is a factual lie.

The music industry is no different- gangster rappers, calling themselves “artists” are applauded and celebrated on mainstream television, movies, and media for targeting the young as recipients of their racist, women hating, and violent lyrics; all destructive to malleable minds of all races. Can any of this be good for not only the young to hear, but for anyone? This only emboldens them to continue their rampages and to become worse than they are. Look at the trend of black thuggery and the emulation of it by all races and cultures, most notably whites, who in their moronic attempts to mimic the gangster mentality prove just how impressionable the public is. It would be laughable if it were not so destructive to our culture and society.

Matthew Heimbach Is a Stunt Monkey?

via TradYouth

He appeared out of nowhere, took the media by storm, and ended up generating an incredible amount of buzz for White interests. But several insiders were deeply displeased with this development. Jealous of their fiefdoms and sinecures, they launched a nationwide campaign–both in public and in private–to insist that he was actually bad for our interests, a loose cannon who threatened to ruin everything by being too brash, too attention hungry, and too populist with his messaging.

The guy’s a reality show spectacle, a media fabrication, an attention whore, they said.

A powerful network, inspired by William F. Buckley’s tradition of purging everybody who presented populist or working class optics, instigated a smear campaign against him to try to drive him out. “He’s making us look bad!” they cried. “He’s out of control!” they shrieked. They they were half-right. He wasn’t under their control, and he wasn’t getting with their contrived gay-friendly, neo-colonialist, and classist agenda. He was a true maverick with a solid message that achieved what nobody else had managed to achieve for a long time, an inspiring and forward-looking vision for White Americans.

Whether or not Donald Trump will prevail against the GOP establishment remains to be seen.

On a completely unrelated note, Matthew Heimbach and the rest of the TradYouth project have had a pretty busy year. We certainly hope that our activism wasn’t so embarrassing, indefensible, or despicably amateurish that it needs to be actively driven out of the otherwise functional and focused White Advocacy movement. “First, do no harm,” right? I’ll offer a broad sketch of what we’ve been up to in the past year and you let us know in the comments what hobbies we should turn to if you feel our political work is outright harmful to White interests.

George W Bush w/ Watercolors
Sorry about starting two disastrous wars and crashing your economy, guys. I’ll stick with watercolors instead of politics from now on.

White Surviv(irl) or, Auschwitz of the Internet?

via Alternative Right

This is going to be a serious article about The Daily Stormer and much more important related issues. No, really! It is. Of course, any article about what is in fact just a troll site is going to have to struggle to be serious, but I have steeled my heart and girded my loins for that struggle.

First off, let’s deal with my previous article, as it managed to trick most people. It was—in case you hadn't realized—a deferential tribute to the actual style of The Daily Stormer. Imagine my surprise and trollish joy when not only the low-tier supporters of the Stormer, the famous troll army, but the Anglins and the chief Anglin himself reacted with the same kind of buttchappery that they try to inflict on their own targets.

As the Anglins constantly say in every article where they offer an explanation for their methodology:
"In order to get people you need a popular, simple and emotional message."
That is exactly the reason I upped the quota of what can best be called "cheap shots"—referring to Anglin’s appearance in a similar way to the way that the Stormer refers to "Kikes" and "Niggers," using outlandish graphics, and giving emotionally plausible supposition and deduction even more weight than fact. This kind of unaccountable and vituperative style is exactly what The Daily Stormer does on a daily basis.

Keep the message simple.
But in case this sounds like criticism it is not. I am merely being descriptive here and I am not even condemning that style—I greatly enjoyed using it myself in my last article and it has its attractions. It certainly had the desired effect: to troll the trolls.

I believe that various styles of writing are allowable under different circumstances: horses for courses.

My reason for using this style was not to attack Anglin for personal reasons. Whatever 'Anglin' is—a single Stakhanovite semi-White working tireless in a misguided attempt to save the White race or a group of professional trolls paid by a gang of paranoid Jews—he/it has admirable qualities. If the first case is true, then he is clearly a force of nature (or will burn to crisp within the next few weeks through overwork). If the second case is true, it would at least represent a group of people motivated by their own nationalist (or tribal) vision, using an effective troll site to discredit a competing group’s nationalism. Despite his appearance, I can even see how Anglin could even be all-White instead of a North American "Argentina is White" meme.

But on to why I decided to critique The Daily Stormer in its own style. My reasons were fourfold:
  1. The simple enjoyment that a writer gets from playing with styles.
  2. To retaliate for what was clearly an attack on NPI and – less importantly – me. I was referred to in the article, although I did not even attend Richard Spencer’s gays-n-kikes-fest (sorry, enjoying that Stormer style too much!).
  3. To raise awareness of the style in question and how it plays to a certain type of mentality in what is not necessarily a healthy way.
  4. To provoke a wider debate about much more important issues related to this petty controversy.
The last point is, of course, the most important. So, what exactly are these issues? The main one is the disjunction between online/troll reality and actual reality.

In the debate in the article comments thread, Stormer supporters constantly reminded me that the Stormer was "a great success" and that it gets "millions of hits," etc., etc. I was informed that it is much more popular than the rest of the Alt-Right put together, etc., etc. I would not quibble about any of this. My impression is that, yes, the Stormer is rather popular, even though, surprisingly, Anglin only has about 2,000 Twitter followers.

But whatever the actual degree of the Stormer’s popularity, an imortant distinction has to be made between popularity on the internet and effectiveness IRL (IRL is an often-used internet acronym for “In real life”). The question, then, is: How does the supposedly enormous online popularity of the Stormer translate into real world effectiveness?

I see zero evidence of this happening—a major red flag for me. One case I cited in my previous on-line squabble with the Stormer was their online cheerleading for Robert Randsdell’s Kentucky senate run, which, when the votes were counted, produced not even a ripple. To be brutally statistical Randsdell ended up with a grand total of 53 votes, probably all of which he would have gotten anyway (thanks Mum!). So much for the Stormer's populist pull!

Of course, you could beat this site with a similar shaped stick, as we haven't swung any elections yet or created any militias, but let’s keep this focused on the big issue of how White Nationalism in general, which has supposedly flourished on the internet, crosses the all-important barrier from on-line existence to IRL.

I think a good analogy for sites that are popular on the internet but have little real world impact are "porn sites." Luckily, Alternative Right does not have enough hits and donations to be called a "porn site." But any WN site that has millions of unique visitors and, presumably, tens of thousands of dollars in donations has an inescapable duty to break out of its internet ghetto and go IRL.

This is what I see TRS attempting – arranging meet-ups of like-minded people with their "Standard Pool Party" get-togethers and sending their top guys to various speaking events to network, even though they identify  to a large degree as a troll organization. Counter-Currents does this too, with more emphasis on Mr. Johnson’s speaking tours, many of them to Europe, where important connections are forged. Then, of course, there is NPI/Radix with its conferences, and TradYouth with its various street demonstrations and campus infiltration.

These are all small steps and nowhere near big enough to shake the world yet, but they are small IRL steps into real life, and light years ahead of anything that the Stormer is attempting.

TradYouth: Contesting the public
spaces instead of the dank corners.
A key concept to judge internet-based entities that proclaim an interest in the greater world is "organic logic." The internet can provide a place for the "seed" of such an entity to germinate and send out a few "viral" root stalks into the "dankness" of cyberspace, but once it grows beyond a certain size in terms of readership and donations it must somehow "break the surface" into real life.

This is its organic logic, by which it must be deemed worthy of itself or not. If it chooses to identify itself as a purely larpy organization, then it can be judged by a different and much lower standard. But if it proclaims an interest in wider reality, then online growth forces upon it a moral imperative to make the transition to the real world. If it does not, we can then conclude that it is a diseased or sinister entity, frozen in a state of perpetual infancy and neoteny, either by accident or design.

But taking tentative steps into the real world is just one way that internet nationalist sites can avoid the "mass masturbation" of being "porn sites" and actually try to spawn some IRL offspring. The other way is by generating morality, ideology, and insights that have utility for those already active IRL.

One of the weaknesses of The Daily Stormer is that it is defined very much by the American political experience. America, as has been pointed out before on our site, is a country with a comparatively large degree of freedom, but little actual democracy, the exact opposite of Europe.

While Europe lacks America’s relative freedom of expression, it has a greater degree of democracy, with the result that nationalism is in a much healthier condition there than it is in America, although far from what it needs to be to ensure the security of the European race. A healthy, intellectual, and morally rigorous Alt-Right is capable of creating narratives and ideas that can serve these IRL political trends. What The Daily Stormer does, by contrast, has zero or even extremely negative utility in this promising field of political action for our people.

Golden Dawn use this
because it's Greek.
Any European nationalist party that is achieving results has done so by turning its back on what can politely be termed "Nazi bullshit," even those parties like Golden Dawn that partly grew out of anti-leftist street gangs.

Across Europe, various street gangs and hooligans have a long tradition of totemically—not ideologically—using Nazi imagery, because it repels and frightens their opponents.

When elements from this world become more involved politically, there is a consistent trend of them ditching the Nazi paraphernalia, despite the occasional nostalgic twinge of regret. This is because it has an unvaryingly  negative effect on nationalist politics, which is why the Leftist media works overtime to frame nationalism in this way. Those organizations that accept such Leftist framing wither and die, while those that find a way of rejecting it do rather well.

The only reason that many American White nationalists don’t realize this is because there is a near zero level of IRL in North American White Nationalist politics—Randsdell's result is typical. This makes North American WNs susceptible to the rather larpy Nazi NIRL ("Not in Real Life") White Nationalism of sites like The Daily Stormer, although The Daily Stormer is not the only one.

While evincing deceptive signs of vitality in the dank-o-sphere, the kind of White Nationalism you find at the Stormer is categorically unable to flourish IRL. It is a trollish mix of cheap shots, inflexible boilerplate narratives, blindly-followed conspiracy theories, and positions that have zero moral purchase in the real world (e.g. GTKRWN).

Exposed to sunlight, it disintegrates in a hissing cloud of green smoke. The function of this troll culture is to give its readers (often low-IQ and low status types) a cheap, emotional hit—a mental "wank"—and a sense of false power and security. In other words it is to drain them of their manly essence (that porn site analogy again!) and keep them on the farm or down in the basement.

Whatever the Stormer is or thinks it is—a moot and meaningless point to be honest—the truth is that in terms of functionality, it is a means of disempowering and containing its readers in the dank world of the internet—retarding their political emergence into the real world. Its "popularity" can be likened to the crowdedness of a concentration camp. It is effectively an electronic ghetto for people divided within themselves between their anonymous online selves and their timid IRL selves, and thus fatally weakened. It is a rail yard for cattle in the process of being removed from the real world, an Auschwitz of the Internet for White Nationalists.

Warcraft: A Lore Primer

via Counter-Currents

Last Friday at the convention known across gaming fandom as Blizzcon, the full trailer was released for the upcoming film Warcraft, which will be based of course on the Warcraft and World of Warcraft video game series. As an ardent fan of the games, I was filled with enthusiasm and impatience upon watching it. I rarely go to the movies anymore, but for a film that cinematizes one of my favorite games, I would surely be there on opening day. It will be out in June and will star Travis Fimmel, who plays Ragnar Lothbrok in the Vikings TV series.

Shortly after my rush of fanboy excitement, a disconcerting afterthought crept into my mind. As one who has obsessively played the games and deeply studied their storyline and background lore, I realized that this film could easily be used for anti-White propaganda purposes. You see, the very first Warcraft games (on which the film is going to be based) tell the tale of an alien race from a dying planet traveling through a portal into the world of Humans, which resembles medieval Europe. This leads to borderline genocidal wars as the Humans defend their kingdoms from the onslaught while the Orcs battle through their lands to procure living space. It is a little ironic that such a story is being projected to the silver screen at a time when Islamic savages rampage across the borders of Europe and Donald Trump talks about plans to build a wall between the US and Mexico to discourage illegal immigration.

Whatever the producer’s rationale may be, I felt that a primer on Warcraft lore would be good for those intent on seeing the film, or for those who are otherwise curious about Warcraft hype. I have been meaning to write a Warcraft article for quite some time, because there are a number of themes within the game and the novels pertaining to the game’s universe that are of relevance to White Nationalism. As with many role-playing game universes, race plays a central role in the story.

The saga centers around the invasion of a European-looking Human world by green-skinned brutes, the Orcs. These are not the cannibalistic, linguistically challenged, culturally void, grotesque servants of Morgoth from Tolkienian mythology. While they are monstrously large, thickly muscled, quick to anger, and warlike, their history reveals them to have much more in common with our own White race than even their Human rivals. This history is told through the games as well as works of fiction, particularly the novels of author Christie Golden (yes, she is Jewish, but the books I am quoting do not promote anti-White biases). The picture we get is of a people who once lived in accordance with something resembling Tradition, only to be corrupted into a spiritually-twisted war machine by sinister external forces from beyond their world. Sound familiar?

Warning: possible spoiler alert.



Orcs hail from a once-verdant planet known as Draenor. They lived in small villages and were organized into clans headed by chieftains. Clan names described aspects of the land or traits of the people, with examples like Bonechewer, Twilight Hammer, Frostwolf, and Blackrock. Clans often warred over territory and hunting grounds, but religious festivals brought them together and reminded them that they all still shared a lineage. When that was not enough, attacks from the neighboring Ogres promoted unity.

Clan life was idyllic and organic. Men and women went on great hunts to feed the village and engaged in whatever other civic labors were called for (foraging, mining, building, etc.). Rather than horses, Orc raiders rode forth on wargs wielding polearm weapons against their rivals. Marriage was monogamous, and wives fought alongside their husbands in battle.

Religion centered around the worship of elemental beings within the world and reverence for one’s ancestors, with totems and sacred locations playing a big role in rituals. Shamans occupied an important place, as they administered the race’s religious observances and were able to summon powerful elemental magic when the need arose. Some shamans even served as chieftains. In summation, they lived in a manner similar to Celts, Goths, or Vikings (similar because they followed an indigenous Tradition, not because they worshipped elements).

Orcs and Ogres were not the only races that populated Draenor. Among their neighbors was the Draenei, a mysterious and reclusive race of blue, intelligent satyr-like beings that dwelled in hidden cities and temple complexes. While the Orcs occasionally traded with the outsiders, they were unaware of a dark skeleton in their closet: the Draenei were actually aliens from an entirely different planet known as Argus. Millennia ago, Argus was infiltrated and destroyed by a demonic army known as the Burning Legion, which cut a fiery swathe across innumerable worlds on a destructive crusade to undo the creations of the order-bestowing Titans. Those Draenei that were not assimilated fled across the universe until finally settling on Draenor, where they established their civilization anew. Their crashed ship resembled a white mountain, and eventually became used as a holy site for Orc shamanism.

The Legion never forgot its grudge against the Draenei, and plumbed the depths of the universe until finally locating them on their new home. Unable to mount an actual offensive against Draenor, they sought other means of eradicating their ancient foe.

Like our Indo-European ancestors, the Orcs were a direct people who settled matters with an honest word or a swing of the axe. Manipulation was a concept totally alien to the vast majority of them, except for the sinister few with Machiavellian personalities. As such, they were particularly vulnerable to it. Seizing upon the naivety of the Orcish leadership and the opportunism of a self-serving minority, the Legion began subverting the Orcs into becoming their own slave army.

A powerful shaman and chieftain named Ner’zhul was tricked by an image of his deceased wife into believing that the Draenei were planning to wipe out the Orcs and conquer their lands. With his influential position among the Orcs, he dispatched envoys to warn the other chieftains of the supposed threat, and worked toward uniting the clans into a single nation. Those skeptical few were swayed by intimidation from the others, driven by an “if you’re not with us, you’re against us” mentality.

Before long, the regional clan identities of the Orcs were supplanted by the nation, or The Horde, as it came to be called. Led by Ner’zhul and driven by paranoia, the Orcs embarked on a genocidal campaign against their reclusive neighbors. Cities were burned and thousands were massacred while the Legion looked on gleefully at the impending demise of its old enemy.

It was not long until the actual ghost of Ner’zhul’s wife informed him of his folly. Before he could reverse his policies, his apprentice Gul’dan, who had secretly been in communion with the Demons the entire time, ousted him as leader of the Horde. With the Demons at his back and a new position of leadership, Gul’dan got to work on a major overhaul of Orcish society.

His first act was to establish a government to rule over this new Horde. There would be a Warchief and his generals to command from the front, which would make the Orc warriors believe that one of their own was in charge. The true power would lie behind the scenes with a council of warlocks called the Shadow Council, led of course by Gul’dan, who took orders from his Demon handlers. Much like the corrupt politicians of White nations — who work to undermine our culture and destroy our communities — the Warchief knew who was truly in charge and did as he was told so long as it kept him in a position of power. He muses: “Now he knew why he liked Gul’dan so much; the former apprentice, now master, was like Blackhand himself. He had no use for ideals, only practicalities. And power, good food, lavish armor, and bloodshed were things both orcs craved.” (Rise of the Horde, 204.)

The shamanic religion was subverted into a cult of Demon worship, and elemental magic was replaced with infernal magic from the Twisting Nether. Rather than requesting the aid of the elements through ritual, the new warlock caste pulled energy from the Nether at will to cast black bolts of unholy flame and conjure Demons against the Draenei. An Orc chieftain named Grom would later remark “lightning is a natural phenomenon. You call it by requesting it. With hell’s fire, you make a bargain. It costs a little of yourself.” (Lord of the Clans, 141). Those shamans who refused to abandon their traditions were ostracized.

To increase the numbers of able-bodied male warriors, the warlocks magically forced children to grow prematurely in a compulsory ritual: “They writhed in pain, screaming and flailing on the earth as bones were stretched, as skin and muscle burst into unnatural growth. A sickly green line linked the children to the warlock, as if he was sucking the very life out of them.” (Rise of the Horde, 232). Any chieftain who took issue was threatened with execution.

In the final and ultimate act of corruption, the Orc army was ordered to drink from a pool of Demon’s blood to increase its fighting prowess. This threw them into a chronic state of frenzy and tainted their souls.

Gul’dan’s new culture allowed the Orcs to drive the Draenei into near-extinction, but not without great cost to his race and planet. The continuous use of Nether magic had a corrosive effect on the landscape, mutating the once-lush forests and fields into wastelands of red rock and sand that resemble the surface of Mars. The Orcs began to mutate as well: their eyes blazed red, their spirits burned with an insatiable bloodlust, and their brown skin flaked off to reveal a shade of green. Years later, Grom would say in hindsight that remark “The warlock’s way was quicker . . . More effective, or so it seemed. But there comes a time when a price must be paid, and sometimes, it is dear indeed” (Lord of the Clans, 141). The few true shamans who remained were unable to practice the old religion, as the elements and spirits were horrified by what the Orcs had become and refused to aid them.

The Dark Portal and Azeroth

The Orcs were eventually left with no more frontiers and a dying planet. When it seemed that they would splinter apart and kill each other over the few remaining resources, Gul’dan received a vision from a sorcerer from yet another world. Medivh, as he was named, taught him how to build a gigantic portal that could transport the Orcs to a new planet teeming with life. Gul’dan immediately set his race upon this new project, and it was not long before the Horde threatened another race, the Humans.

The Humans are a physically European race that inhabits a world called Azeroth. Their material culture is medieval, they are separated into several feudal kingdoms, and their religion is essentially medieval Catholicism with the word “God” replaced by “The Light.”

The events that occur after the Orcs cross over into Azeroth are told over the course of three video games and several works of fiction. To sum it all up, the Orcs forged an alliance with Azeroth’s native voodoo-practicing Trolls and tech-savvy Goblins; the Humans allied with the tinkering Gnomes, crafty Dwarves, and magocratic Elves; and the two sides fought two destructive wars that ended with the Horde’s defeat. The few thousand Orc survivors were imprisoned in internment camps and gradually lapsed into a debilitating lethargy.

Recovering a Lost Heritage

Between the events of the games Warcraft II and Warcraft III, a blue-eyed Orc is born to a chieftain who disagrees with Gul’dan’s methods. After his parents are assassinated by the warlock, he is recovered by a power-hungry Human warlord who oversees one of the Orc internment camps. The Human names the child “Thrall” to keep reminded of his subservient status. As the Orc child grows up, he is secretly educated in reading and history by one of the warlord’s servants. It is then that he understands his Otherness.

With a new enthusiasm to explore his racial identity, Thrall steals away from the castle into the nearby internment camp. Once inside he finds a race of borderline-catatonic shells that barely communicate with one another, and that show no interest in him or his questions. Only after laborious prying does he manage to get one Orc to talk to him, and thus discovers the whereabouts of Orcish clans out in the wilderness that managed to evade internment.

Driven by his desire to discover who and what he truly is, Thrall journeys into the Alterac Valley and finds the remnants of his own clan, the Frostwolves. The shaman Drek’Thar educates him in the old ways, which he was able to rekindle by earning the elements’ forgiveness and forsaking warlock magic. In speaking with other free Orcs, Thrall “learned that the orcs were of a noble race. They were masters on the battlefield, and had been known to revel in the spray of blood and the crack of bone, but their culture was a rich, elaborate one . . . each clan was separate unto itself. Each had its own symbols, customs, even speech” (Lord of the Clans, 140).

With a renewed sense of self, Thrall decides to network with the other Orc clans that escaped imprisonment. He soon encounters the defeated leader of the Horde, Orgrim Doomhammer, who overthrew the former Warchief after learning that he was Gul’dan’s puppet. With a small army, Thrall and Doomhammer begin raiding the nearby internment camps and freeing their kin. These Orcs are reeducated on their heroic past, shown shamanic feats of magic when skeptical, and absorbed into the new Horde. Doomhammer eventually falls in battle and appoints Thrall as the new Warchief with his dying breath.

At the end of the novel Lord of the Clans and the beginning of the game Warcraft III, Thrall completes the liberation of his race from the camps and leads them across the sea to a distant western continent. Once there, they erect a new Orcish civilization based upon the traditions of old and supplemented with some of the things they learned along the way. They reforge their alliance with the Trolls and Goblins, meet some new friends, and prepare for whatever this new planet has to throw at them. Very Old Testament, I know, but nonetheless a positive story about racial pride and preservation.

While the Humans of Azeroth may resemble the White race during a particular stage of civilization, the history of the Orcs offers a more direct parallel to that of our people. At one time, we had our own corners of the world where we practiced homegrown cultures and religions. Our societies were organic, where everyone had some role to play whether it was political leader, priest, warrior, tradesman, or laborer. We lived harmoniously with nature, or at least much more so than we do now. We killed when it was necessary for the greater good of the tribe. We may not have worshipped the elements, but we kept our gods and revered our ancestors. When our communities faced external threats, our leaders did what was necessary to safeguard their people and remove the threats (most of the time.)

Then, a corruptive force (Jews and their various doctrines) from outside of our race insinuated itself into our civilizations. Using self-serving opportunists from among our own ranks, this force spread new ways of life that caused a dark metamorphosis in our people. It gave us new religions that caused us to abandon our gods in favor of an alien deity and alien symbols. It gave us new political ideologies that led to a monstrous version of the centrally-governed state. New technologies made us powerful, but the corruptors steered them in such a way as to bring about the death of our old warrior ethics while also causing harm to our planet. Our leaders have gone from representing their own people to representing the interests of the corruptors, who rule secretly from behind-the-scenes. When the need arises, the corruptors use our warriors to kill off their enemies. Our children’s normative development has been impeded by the new culture of the corruptors, which encourages them via television, movies, music, and other mediums to be harmfully precocious.

Where do we stand now? Much like the Orcs of the internment camps, many of our people are lethargic automatons who lumber on through the motions of daily life. No higher ideals stimulate them and no culture animates them save consumerism. Our lands are controlled by a foreign elite who would see us waste away and disappear. Even so, we are still White men and women, just as Thrall’s people were still Orcs. When the hammer fell, the old flame of the Orcish spirit was rekindled, and they rose up to smash their captors into the dirt. They then went on to carve out a piece of territory and erect a new state that served the interests of Orcs and their allies — a federation of ethnostates, if you will. Those who play World of Warcraft have been to its capital city of Orgrimmar hundreds of times, no doubt.

I hold out the hope that the Orcs’ destiny will be our destiny. We will have our Thralls, and we will build our Orgrimmars, and we will make our enemies and their supporters pay for their crimes. Given the terrors that are currently being inflicted on our ancestral continent with the complicity of the governments that are supposed to be protecting it, and given the discourse occurring in American politics, universities, and on the Web over immigration, feminism, and the insanity of the Left in general, I cannot help but feel that an awakening is brewing within the hearts of our kin.


I have no doubt that Warcraft will be an excellently entertaining film, especially for video game fanboys like myself and fans of the fantasy genre in general. I can only hope that it will not be used as a tool for subversion.

Whether Legendary Pictures has decided to politicize the film or not, I felt that a primer on the lore of Warcraft would still make a good addition to Counter-Currents for three main reasons (and spoiling the story for everyone is not one of them.) Firstly, it will give people who intend to see the film, or who are otherwise curious about World of Warcraft, a frame of reference. Secondly, it will show readers that even if the directors choose to make the film a pro-immigration story, the original lore lends itself to other interpretations. This brings us to my third reason: the story of the Orcs can easily be interpreted as a story about the White peoples of Europe; it’s a story about our idyllic past, our rise to power, and our decline. But it’s also a story about how we can rise again! We can reclaim our identity and culture; we can build new nations that represent our interests and ensure our survival; we can have positive interactions with other nations and races who have done the same for themselves. We can fuse the old with the new to create a civilization that is modern in its style and technology but traditional in its guiding principles.

To quote the shaman Drek’Thar:

They are like empty cups . . . that were once filled with poison. Now they cry out to be filled with something wholesome once again. That which they yearn for is the nourishment of the old ways . . . a reconnection with the simple and pure powers of the natural forces and laws . . .This, and only this, will rouse them from their stupor and remind them of the proud, courageous line from which we have all come. (Lord of the Clans, 173).

We may not yet have our Thralls and Doomhammers, or the support of Trolls and Goblins, but we have resources to lay the groundwork for their eventual victory. We have books, blogs, webzines, and YouTube channels that work to “remind” us of our “proud, courageous line” and to inform us about how our enemies are deceiving us. We have the tireless efforts of those individuals and organizations working to spread awareness among our people and build alternative communities. When Thrall finally mounts his offensive against our overseers, hopefully we will already have enough sense to unlock the gates so he doesn’t have to batter them down.


Christie Golden, Rise of the Horde (New York: Pocket Books, 2007)
Christie Golden, Lord of the Clans (New YorkPocket Books, 2001)

Jews Own America: Max Keiser Talks with Dr. Paul Craig Roberts

via The Traitor Within

Israel owns nukes. Look up: "United States proxy wars." Do your own research.

Remembering Harold Yates — and the Corrupt British Politicians Complicit in His Death

via The Occidental Observer

Ramleh Cemetery in Israel where
Gunner Harold Yates is buried
Sunday, November 8th, was Remembrance Day, and members of the National Front made their traditional march to the Cenotaph in London as a tribute to Britain’s war dead.  As part of the NF’s Forgotten British Heroes Campaign, a special mention was made of a young Sheffield gunner called Harold Yates who was killed in Palestine in 1945, six months after the end of the war in Europe when Jewish terrorists in British uniform attacked a railway junction.

At first glance it seems as if the story of 25-year-old Gunner Yates would scarce merit a footnote. After all, he was only one among hundreds of thousands of others being remembered in similar ceremonies across Britain. But there is an appalling story behind the death of Gunner Yates. For two senior politicians were complicit in the attack that killed him.  Tipped-off about the impending assault, they gave it their tacit approval, agreed to turn a blind eye, said nothing and warned no-one.

This is a story of treachery, squalid political expediency and a despicable indifference to the lives of British servicemen. It has not been told in full until now.  In 1945 the Palestine Mandate was in the grip of a Jewish insurgency aimed at forcing the British to allow a flood of Jewish immigrants from Europe into the territory. The British Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin was determined to resist, as it not only would have been in breach of the undertakings given to the Palestinians by the Balfour Declaration but it would have also meant losing the support of all other Arab countries in the region. To allow this to take place would have meant a war in the Mandate, so Bevin had no option but to maintain a desperate policing action to keep the two sides apart.

But the problem did not end there.  The 1945 general election had not only swept Churchill out of office and the Labour Party into power, but among the Labour’s landslide were no less than 46 Jewish MPs.  The overwhelming majority of these were not only fanatical Zionists, but they were supported by a loyal auxiliary of non-Jewish MPs at the highest levels of the party, including two men, John Strachey and Richard Crossman, both to become prominent names in post-war Britain. The collusion of these two in an attack that killed a British serviceman is a paradigmatic example of the abasement of non-Jewish politicians who prostitute themselves to Jewish interests.

john strachey
John Strachey
Both were typical of high-flying Labour ministers at the time and far removed from the English working class they claimed to represent. They both came from well-to-do backgrounds.  Strachey was a product of Eton and Oxford. Sophisticated and urbane, he moved in the most politically fashionable circles. In the thirties, this one-time Communist had moved into the Labour Party and had worked hard to ingratiate himself closely with Jewish wealth and political power. When the White working class of the East End of London rose up against Jewish predation under the banner of the British Union of Fascists, Strachey had organised counter-demonstrations with Communist and Jewish street agitators.  Working with wealthy Jewish publisher Victor Gollanz and academic Harold Laski, Strachey helped launch the Left Book Club which became an energetic source of anti-German propaganda.  He was elected a Labour MP in 1945 and became Under Secretary for Air.

Richard Crossman
Richard Crossman attended the highly prestigious and exclusive Winchester College before obtaining a double-first in Classics at Oxford. He later worked for the television magnate Sidney Bernstein, but it was Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann who most impressed him. Weizmann was a roving emissary promoting the Jewish cause who was buoyed up by Lord Rothschild’s generous financial contributions. With Rothschild’s patronage, Weizmann was able to buy influence across the globe. Crossman described him as the greatest man he had ever met.

Richard Crossman’s political career was to rise sharply with his support of Zionism. Crossman said that Jewish state should have been forced on the Arabs by the British at the earliest possible time and that Jewish immigration should have been built up as fast as possible. It was a view he repeated through the pages of the New Statesman which was published by the Jewish founder of the Fabian Society, Sidney Webb.  (Crossman was later appointed editor). Crossman became an MP in the 1945 government at the height of the Palestine emergency.

The Jews in Palestine were represented by the Jewish Agency for which the British Board of Jewish Deputies acted as representative in Britain. The Jewish Agency maintained that it had no power over the terrorist gangs operating in Palestine, but this was a deception. In fact, the Haganah was its military wing.

In late 1945 the Jewish Agency decided it had to carry out a terrorist spectacular against British forces in Palestine as a show of strength to its American backers. But worried that this would trigger a brutal clampdown and reprisal from the British, the action had to be carefully measured. The Agency therefore planned one further large-scale operation to paralyse Palestine’s railways.

There the matter might have rested until a remarkable passage was published in Professor Hugh Thomas’s 1973 biography of John Strachey which gave the game away:
Only on Palestine did Strachey have any serious dispute with the government. One day, Crossman, now in the House of Commons, came to see Strachey. The former was devoting his efforts to the Zionist cause. He had heard from his friends in the Jewish Agency that they were contemplating an act of sabotage, not only for its own purpose but to demonstrate to the world their capacities. Should this be done, or should it not? Few would be killed. But would it help the Jews. Crossman asked Strachey for his advice and Strachey, a member of the Defence Committee of the Cabinet, undertook to find out. The next day in the smoking room in the House of Commons Strachey gave his approval to Crossman. The Haganah went ahead and blew up all the bridges over the Jordan. No-one was killed but the British Army in Palestine were cut off from their lines of supply with Jordan.
Incredibly, at a time when the British Army was taking casualties from Jewish terrorist attacks in Palestine, here were two senior Labour members — one a Minister —gg conspiring to agree to an attack on British soldiers.

But Prof. Thomas was wrong to state that no-one was killed in the attack. The huge Haganah attack is known in Israel as “The Night of the Trains” and took place on the night of October 31, 1945.  The railway network was severed in 153 places. Three police launches were sunk and many railway yards and the Haifa oil refinery attacked by Jewish gangs. At one railway junction, 25-year-old Gunner Yates from Sheffield was shot to death.  Perhaps he let his guard down by the approaching figures in British officers’ uniforms.

A few days later, the British finally broke the Jewish Agency code, and Crossman and Strachey spent an agitated next few days fearing their role might be discovered.  Certainly in the war that had ended just six months earlier, traitors had ended up on the end of a rope for far less.

But in the end it was pressure from the US that forced Britain to allow the Jews into Palestine. In the mid-forties, a bankrupt Britain was dependant on American goodwill for her economic survival through an aid program known as the Marshall Plan. President Truman, as he later explained frankly in his memoirs, was equally dependant on Jewish goodwill for his presidential campaign funds.

This story might never have come to the light but for the authors of a remarkable book published in 2006 which exposed how Britain’s Labour Party had been captured and exploited by Jewish interests from the earliest days of the 20th century. As noted in Publish It Not — The Story of the Middle East Cover-Up by Michael Adams and Christopher Mayhew (a principal in the affair), “the British government was subjected to ruthless pressure from Washington to get the Arabs to accept the Zionist demands. It was a disgraceful abuse of power.” On one occasion the US Ambassador insisted that the British government comply with the President’s request that Britain admit a hundred thousand Jewish refugees to Palestine “immediately.”  Bevin and Christopher Mayhew, his Under-Secretary, objected to what was an obvious recipe for war with the Arabs.
The (US) Ambassador then replied carefully and deliberately that the President wished it to be known that if we could help him over this, it would enable our friends in Washington to get our Marshall Aid appropriation through Congress.  In other words we must do as the Zionists wish — or starve.  Bevin surrendered — he had to — but he was understandably bitter and angry.  He felt it outrageous that the United States, which had no responsibility for law and order in Palestine (and no intention of permitting massive Jewish immigration into the United States), should, from very questionable motives, impose an impossibly burdensome and dangerous task on Britain. (pp. 17–18)
publish it not wall

Publish It Not is a remarkable publication not least because both of the authors were men with impeccable socialist and anti-racialist credentials.  Mayhew was a Labour minister while Adams was a Middle East correspondent for the Guardian.
They were outraged at the way in which the Arabs were treated and that Britain’s assurances to them counted for nothing. But equally they were appalled at how Labour, Britain’s main progressive party, seemed to have been, to a large extent, taken over by Jewish influence and money.

Despite their naiveté over the ethnic nature of the conflict, their book has penetrating insights and fascinating information about the perversion of the Labour Party in the twentieth century. Throughout the text they insist on the prophylactic word ‘Zionist’, but it avails them of nothing. In a memorable phrase Mayhew writes:
But a striking feature … has been the relentless way in which those of us who chose to speak up for the Arabs have been harassed by our opponents. They seem not to be satisfied with trying to prove us wrong; they have to prove us wicked as well. Indeed they sometimes showed themselves much less concerned to answer our arguments than to damage our reputations — and they can be surprisingly unscrupulous in the way they go about it.
The capture of the Labour Party by Zionism had been a remarkable phenomenon, wrote Mayhew:
It is a remarkable fact that the Labour Party leaders, though representing a movement which has always vigorously opposed racialism, colonialism, militarism and the acquisition of territory through conquest, never appeared to have made any (recorded) public criticism of Israel at all.
All the more amazing when you compared it with South Africa which practised many of the same policies but which was treated as a pariah. Often it was the same Jewish Labour MPs who led the charge against South Africa who were most active in defence of Israel.

Mayhew was one of the huge Labour intake of MPs who entered parliament in 1945 and soon he was in government office dealing with the fraught question of Palestine.  He freely admits that at the time he was new to the Palestine problem and did not understand all the ramifications. At the time it seemed a sideshow. The British Foreign Office was struggling with a number of issues.  India and Pakistan had to be given their freedom.  The Marshall Aid plan had to be pushed forward. Institutions had to be created for a divided Germany. NATO was about to be formed.

Soon, in addition to an intense whispering campaign, he was being subjected to verbal intimidation, mind games and harassment from increasingly shrill “Zionist” deputations who were demanding more Jewish immigration into Palestine from Europe.
These deputations were always well-informed, articulate, demanding, passionate and ruthless. The most formidable of their spokesman, unquestionably, was Mr Sidney Silverman; he would attack me personally in the most merciless fashion, placing on my shoulders the responsibility for the deaths and suicides of the immigrants whom we had turned back.
On 11 July 1948 a young MP called Christopher Mayhew rose in the House of Commons to speak in an Adjournment Debate about recognition of the state of Israel. The debate had been initiated by an ambitious and energetic backbencher called Harold Lever, and Mr Mayhew was to answer for the government as the Under Secretary at the Foreign Office.

With an importunity typical of Zionists at that time Mr Lever had started the debate at eight o’clock in the morning after an all-night sitting, and my reply sounds appropriately tired and irritated.”  Mr Mayhew pleaded for balance and then said “Has my Honourable Friend ever heard that there is an Arab point of view?”

Thirty years later Mayhew still remembered the scene vividly.  While he was accompanied by his sole supporter, his Private Secretary, he faced the massed ranks of the Zionist lobby in parliament on the other side.  A group of twenty or thirty pro-Israeli Labour members, most of them Jewish. They included Sydney Silverman, Maurice Edelman and Ian Mikardo. Among them was Israel’s most devoted non-Jewish supporter Richard Crossman.

Mayhew’s boss, the Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin, felt the pressure too as he was constantly being harried by groups of Jewish Labour MPs. At the end of one tense Question Time session he exploded. “We must also remember the Arab side of the case — there are, after all, no Arabs in the House.” This remark provoked uproar and endless accusations of anti-Semitism. But of course there was no counter pressure from the Arabs whose homes, lands and property these Jewish immigrants were seizing. Bevin was passionately anti-Zionist and held that Zionism was basically racism.

Years later an attempt was made to place Mayhew on the pro-Israeli payroll. It happened in 1951 after he had lost his Parliamentary seat and was working as a freelance television journalist. The Director of the World Jewish Congress, Mr A I Easterman summoned him to his office in Cavendish Square, and proposed an informal arrangement.  Whenever Mayhew was asked for advice by Mr Easterman, he would be paid “a substantial honorarium” — an obviously corrupt “consulting” arrangement. This was to be a personal arrangement between the two with nothing in writing. “In fairness to Mr Easterman, it should be said that he has denied my version of events.”  Easterman claimed he did not make the offer and in any case the World Jewish Congress was a far from wealthy organisation. “All I did day to him about finance was that, naturally, we would re-imburse him for any expenditure that he might incur on our behalf,” Easterman said.

In 1953 Mayhew made his first visit to a Palestine refugee camp and learned first-hand what had been going on. For him his visit destroyed the myth that in 1948 the refugees had fled voluntarily. This was underlined when the refugees from the 1967 war behaved in the same way and suffered the same fate. They left their homes in panic before the advancing Israeli armies and were then prevented by the Israelis from returning. The pattern was the same in both wars with the exception of the massacre of the village of Deir Yassin.

This was important. Before 1967 the myth that the 1948 refugees had fled voluntarily was almost universally believed in European countries and repeated across the media. During his visit, Mayhew began to feel actively committed to the Palestinian cause. He was shocked by the Israeli leaders’ callous and self-righteous indifference to the suffering of the Palestinian refugees stated to their faces and he made his views public.

This had consequences for his political career.  A senior colleague told Mayhew that frankly it had been his attitude to Israel that counted against him. This was confirmed in an article in Israeli newspaper Maa’riv  in 1974.

He wasn’t the only one. One charge that Jewish leadership in Britain has always been sensitive to is that of “dual loyalty” — disloyalty by any other name. Despite the passionate embrace of the cause of Israel by many Jewish Labour MPs, the charge of dual loyalty always left them spitting with indignation.

Andrew Faulds was one Labour MP who did question the matter of dual loyalties. He was not only taken to task by the Prime Minister but deprived of his post as a Front Bench spokesman. In letter to him PM Harold Wilson wrote: “It was because of ‘uncomradely behaviour’… you caused great offence by impugning the patriotism of Jewish Members of Parliament by implying that they had dual loyalties.”

Mayhew notes that while Zionist political contributions to politicians in the United States had always been discussed with admirable frankness (an exaggeration at best), the discretion surrounding such arrangements in Britain meant they were kept confidential.

But one hint as to how things really worked in Britain came in a letter published in a Tel Aviv newspaper in which an Israeli diplomat in the UK defended his embassy against charges that they were not doing enough to sway political opinion. Mr Benad Avital said that he and the Ambassador met personally with 100 supportive British MPs before one debate.  “Inevitably, we concentrate on target groups which we consider opinion-making, rather than on every man in the street. This policy has so far paid well” (italics added). As always, the default option for Jews is to pursue a top-down strategy.

Young Harold Yates was far from the last Briton to be killed by terrorists in Palestine in 1945.  In the months immediately following VE day, the casualty list included the following colonial police officers:  George Wilde,  Bertie Sharpley,  James Barry, Gordon Hill, Denis Flanagan and Richard Symons.

On December 27, 1945 in an attack on the CID HQ the following officers were killed : Edward Hyde (28), Noel Nicholson (20), George Smith (44) and Privates Likoebe Kurata, Vincent Nthinya, Tapotsa Ntisa all in African Pioneer Corps.

The remains of Harold Yates are interred at Ramleh War Cemetery, Israel, Plot 7, Row C.

Misguided Youth

via Counter-Currents

He changed to a walk from an easy jog and his breathing eased. The back road was unlit and not often traveled this late at night, which suited him just fine. In one hand he carried a quart can; jammed inside was an inexpensive sash brush, its bristles ragged and handle sticky. The can held only one quarter of an inch of paint now. Paint under his fingernails and smeared on the T-shirt he wore under an old navy blue sweatshirt gave him some unease, but he’d be home soon. It went perfectly; he got the wavy lines under “achtung!” just like in that old film; he didn’t make the skull though; instead a nice big swastika.

He almost wished he could be around tomorrow to hear the local TV news start to squawk about it, but he’d be way out of state, for keeps. He turned away from the road at the crossing and started down the old tracks, a shortcut home. When still near the road he heard a v8 engine; turning, he saw the light rack and the door emblem; Highway Patrol, pretty far from the highway too. He increased his pace while watching over his shoulder; the cruiser flashed brake lights, then back-up lights; it stopped across the tracks; he ran.

The searchlight caught and followed him. He jumped off the right of way into the long wet grass at the edge of a swamp. He filled the paint can with track ballast and carefully sunk it as he had planned to. The light probed for him awhile then snapped off, and he ran again.

But the cop hadn’t quit; the cruiser turned ‘round the other way, took a right, and climbed a hill that overlooked that stretch of track. Our fleeing malefactor noticed the police car had reached a new position just as its beam began to sweep around where he had been, then come his way. He kept running. There were some willows and weeds ahead. He thought the light might lose him there. When he reached the trees he went off the permanent way opposite the light, but the light was gone, a good sign he thought. He saw two piles of sand beside a storage shed. He mixed some sand with water and scrubbed most of the paint from his hands, and, with the aid of the risen moon and a pocketknife, he scraped the paint from under his fingernails. “Looks good enough,” he thought. He continued down the tracks to the next crossing. This is where he had to be careful. Getting by this road, it was necessary to check both directions from a place where he’d visible from a distance due to the lack of cover and then run until unseen away from the road.

After crossing, all he needed to do was walk the rest of the way home, The tracks here went through a cut in a small hill, and as he entered he froze. Ahead in the moonlight next to the track he saw a police car without lights, engine quiet, waiting for him. That state guy must have radioed the locals. He inched back out of the cutting, remaining in the shadows then climbed up the side of the cut and over the lip, ran far enough away from the edge and flopped down in the uncut hay on the face of the hill. He rolled onto his back and relaxed awhile.

He noticed the moon was up in the south and he looked to the east where Deneb, Altair, and Vega had risen; he estimated them to be between 30 and sixty degrees up from the horizon, a sign of summer approaching. He wondered how hot it would be where they were moving to; all the furniture had gone yesterday, and they were camping out in the house until early tomorrow, up at 5:30 and away in the car by 6:00 sharp, breakfast after 50 miles or so. Good thing too. Some of the kids at school had seen him reading one of those booklets he got from Rockwell and knew he was in the movement. His parents didn’t know; they didn’t read his mail; they paid no attention to the stuff he collected. They didn’t care what he read.

He thought the best thing now was to go up the hill and into the cemetery, follow the line of the fence to the gate on the other side, then cut through the woods.

He crawled through the grass for a while until he felt sure of getting to the side gate with a sprint. When inside among the headstones and ornamental trees and shrubs he felt safer but still needed to keep as far from the driveways as possible. They must know he’d gone in here by now, and he did glimpse headlights nearby, seeming to go back the way he’d come from.

Following the line of the chain link fence, pausing to listen now and then, he considered climbing the fence which would mean less distance to get home. But it was tall and topped with barbed wire, and if they got here and saw him when he was high up on this side it might get bad. Funny how they had those barb arms angle inward as if they wanted to keep people in, not out. Anyway, the gates were shut at night but never locked . . . stupid.

He reached the gap between the end of the fence and the massive stone gate and slipped through into an area of saplings and bushes and just beyond the driveway’s fence a police car was parked, engine off, no lights just as before, except he could see, by means of the street lights beyond, the polygonal silhouette of a cop’s hat. It looked like three of them in that car. He needed to move slowly if at all; he tried a few backward steps while watching intently, then very carefully sideways toward the deeper woods. Last year’s leaves were wet and slippery underneath and gave way. One of his feet slipped, so he made a quick move to recover and caused some of the drier leaves to rustle.

He saw rapid movement in the prowl car which made him decide to run for it. He got behind one of the larger trees as a searchlight beam shot out to where he’d been and began a sweep toward his new refuge and stopped. The light, bisected by his tree, didn’t move off. Did they know he was there?

His hand raised the edge of his sweatshirt and grasped the handle of the P-38 9mm he was carrying under the waistband of his jeans. Good thing he didn’t let it go ahead with the rest of his stuff. The weapon, his most prized possession, had the stamped on Adler and Heer acceptance marks and the date 1944, one of the last made. He’d only shoot if he had to.

The light moved a little and then flicked off; he heard radio static; the engine turned over; the headlights came on and started to recede; he moved away from the light then peeped around the tree to watch the taillights fade. They only almost had me he thought with an inward grin, but they gave up looking; at least for now.

Now all he had to do was walk home.

He could navigate through the swamp at night with even less moon than tonight had and climbed the neighbor’s fence as easily as usual. He walked through the small orchard on that property fast but quiet so as not to set off that old guy’s pain-in-the-ass dogs. Reaching his own backyard he was pleased to notice a gray light downstairs; his parents were still up and, most likely, sitting in the old folding chairs watching a portable TV tuned into some stupid late night variety show.

He climbed up the trellis on the back side of the kitchen ell, walked in a crouch across it’s roof to his still open bedroom window, crawled in, and let the sash down behind. Having got into his sleeping bag and gotten all of his things off and the Walther secure, he started to try to sleep. Then the doorbell rang; he heard his Dad go to answer it and say “Hello officer, what’s going on?”

The cops wanted to know if both the kids were home and if anyone had been outside during the evening, the father said “No, nobody’s been out; in fact the kids are upstairs; they went to bed around nine; we’re in the process of moving, as you can see, and we’ll all have to be up and away early.”

The policemen apologized, wished them a good night, and left. Upstairs a kid stifled a good laugh and some time later fell asleep.